My Apologies
by The End Of The Beginning
Summary: ONESHOT. They meet again, if only for a moment, but that moment is shattering. The moment is what explains it all, it's what satisfies, if only for some.


A/N: Crazy little idea I thought of when I watched Red Eye for the millionth time again this afternoon. Maybe our dear old Jack wasn't as bad as we thought. Hey, you never know.

You know the drill, people. Hate, love, but review either way. And make sure to tip your waiter on the way out.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

He calls you every day, but there's nothing you can do about it.

The problem is that you don't pick up the phone. There's certainly a part of you that wants to, as your fingers tremble with desire to lift the phone from the receiver, sparing all delicacy and sensibility. But another part of you, the part that's always one, Lisa Reisert, wins out. That's why you've never had a telephone conversation with Jackson Rippner.

The phone rings the same time every day. At the breaking point between night and day, before dawn has broken, but too late to go back to sleep. Three o'clock in the morning, when he knows you'll be already awake. Cooking eggs like the little insomniac you are, glumly forking them into your mouth without tasting them at all, you know he can see you. You know he's watching. But there's no way to prove it, no way at all, because you won't answer the phone.

The police say that they can't catch him if you cannot prove it's him. There is no evidence, they say, that it's not just an obnoxious telemarketer. But the nagging intuition you've always had insists on his presence.

It lasts for weeks and then stops, abruptly, after exactly twenty-eight days of torture. For three blissful days, the phone is silent during the midmorning hours. You savor the stillness, and for once are able to enjoy your routine.

But then his presence is thrust back into your life again, the ultimate symbol of deception and evil. You know what it is as soon as your fingers graze the crisp white envelope attached to your door. It's worse than a death notice—a letter from death himself, with the single word _Leese_ ultimately proving the identity of the sender.

You sit at the table with an untouched mug of tea for hours that night, debating whether or not to open the envelope. Your curiosity finally overcomes your acumen, and you ferociously tear it open, your sheathed fingernails slicing into the paper beneath.

He's wondering, it says, whether or not you would be interested in meeting again, that night, to be specific. Whether or not it would be possible to set something up to possibly make arrangements. Arrangements for the upcoming trial, where you will eagerly send him to his doom. He says he promises not to hurt you and he never breaks his promises, but could you do one thing and please, _please,_ not inform the police? He signs it simply, merely with a J.

You sit at the table with no sense of surrounding or logistic for several minutes, before you tug your lightweight jacket back over your shoulders and run to the car. It's a silly notion, this thinking that a murderer is not bent on killing you, but it's worth a shot. Maybe he's not lying. Maybe he really does just want to make amends. Just on the off chance that he does want to kill you, though, you tuck your handy .32 Beretta pistol into your purse.

He has requested a meeting at a shady café just five miles south of your apartment. 'The Auctioneer', it's called, and you dryly wonder who would christen their establishment something so ridiculous. You arrive in record time, speeding into the parking lot and jumping out before you can remember to unbuckle your seat belt.

You scan the dingy little building before your hazel eyes bear witness to his nightmarish blue eyes. They meet, and he beckons you over to his table with a nod. It's not until you're halfway there until another girl approaches the table, her back turned to you, and sits across from him. You scowl. A girlfriend? A wife? A coworker? Why does it matter, and why does it make you angry?

You are not jealous, you are merely jealous that he can go on marvelously with his life while you, the creator of his defeat, are left clinging to whatever is left of your shell of existence. It's simply not fair that he have a pleasant life while you curl up in fear every time you see a man.

"Lisa."

"Jack."

He does not react to your jab. He invites you to sit. You ask where. "Anywhere." You will not sit next to this strange girl, yet you refuse to be in any sort of proximity to him. You pull up a chair from a nearby table and drag it to the booth. He is still nonplussed, and begins to speak.

"How are things?"

"You should know better than I."

"What do you mean?"

You shoot him a look seeping with venom. The girl giggles quietly, and you steal a glance. Who is she? He notices your reaction to her mirth and says, "Lisa, I'd like you to meet someone."

"With all due respect, Jack, I'd rather not. Let's just get this over with and tell me what you want and why. I don't want to be here in the first place."

"This girl is the reason why you're here," he says quietly, subdued. He seems a bit melancholy. "She's the reason why I know you."

You don't speak. You don't know what to say, and at the moment, you're not sure you know how to form words, anyway. He continues. "Leese, this is Therese. She's eleven years old."

You wonder briefly why Jackson Rippner is in contact with an eleven-year-old girl, but he doesn't let you speak before answering your unspoken question.

"She's my daughter."

He explains quickly how he'd been a young father, how her mother had died when she was an infant and he had been left to take care of her. The girl occupies herself with the hem of her shirt, uncomfortable, as he explains that he took on the managerial job, as he refers to it in his daughter's presence, to make ends meet. It was never what he wanted, nothing he ever aspired for.

"I don't believe you." The girl looked up with sad eyes as Lisa scolded her supposed father. "You've never done anything that's given me reason to not hate you. Why should I trust you now? You could be saying all of this so I wouldn't press charges against you."

"I don't care if you press charges against me."

"But--"

He holds up a hand, restricting your speech. "I know what the note said. It was a well-meaning trap meant to lure you hear. You wouldn't believe some ink on looseleaf, I had a feeling it would take my voice to drill my apology into your head. Okay? I'm apologizing. None of what happened was personal. It was merely a means to an end, and in this end, it meant, finally, dinner."

You don't know what to say. He's sincere. You can tell. His explanation doesn't make sense, but at the same time, it adds up. The girl is there before you, crystal-clear, and although she lacks the piercing blue eyes, her hair is a sleek, silky brown that falls simply down her back. Her cheekbones are sharp, defined from lack of food. Everything that happened, everything he did to you was all for this little girl. He followed you to finish the job to get paid, and now that you think about it, he never hurt you. He didn't try to, nor did he succeed. Not lastingly, anyway, and if it took a beating to feed this kid, then, that's what it took.

But then it hits you. He failed. Did he get paid regardless? Is that why you're here? Is he looking for a handout?

"Lisa." You look up. He looks pained, but his eyes are not pointed at you, rather at two men entering the café. "Could you please take Therese outside for a moment?"

You aren't sure why, and you're even less assured why you agree with no questions asked. "Okay."

Therese stands wordlessly and follows you from the café. You aren't sure where to take her, so you wait outside in the cool air and look at each other.

"So," she says.

"So," you say back.

"Do you love my dad?" You are taken aback by her blunt question, yet you reply honestly.

"I'm not really sure."

"Oh. I do." It's obvious, you could see it in the little girl's eyes, back in the restaurant.

"That's good."

"At least, I did."

"What do you--"

Before you can finish speaking, a series of gunshots rip through the air. You turn slowly to look back inside the café, and through the window, you see him, lying motionless on the floor. Your hand flies to your mouth and you try to cry, try to release some of the tension rising in your chest that makes it difficult to breathe. You turn back around as Therese taps your shoulder, holding out a piece of paper. You accept it and your eyes scan the page.

Leese— 

_I'm sorry things had to end this way. Therese knew, of course, everything about my company and what had to happen. I messed up, and this is what happens to failures in the big league. I wish you didn't have to know, but you're the only person I knew who could help my daughter._

_Please don't feel responsible for this. You had no way of knowing that by defeating me you would kill me. Actually, I'm sure that back in your father's house you really did want to kill me, but not the real me. You wanted to kill the evil version of me that I was forced to create for you. _

_I've told Therese what to expect. She understands, and I get it if you aren't interested. But if you don't take her, could you please make sure she finds a decent family? I don't want her to end up like me, having a kid when she's seventeen, dropping out of school, and ending up in a profession of organized crime just to put bread on the table. _

_Just know one thing, Leese, and that's this: even though that job was never meant to be personal, it became, to me, too personal for my own good. I know I had feelings for you right from the start, and that's why I'm trusting you to watch out for my daughter. It's a pretty hefty favor, I know, but I know you'll do it. _

_And that's why I loved you._

_Yours respectfully,_

_Jackson Rippner_

You drop the note, but on second thought, retrieve it from the asphalt and tuck it into the pocket of your navy jacket. Therese looks at you, and you nod, gingerly wrapping an arm around the girl's shoulder. You begin to walk back towards the café, because you know the assassins are by now long gone.

"What are we doing?"

"Well," you explain, as the sun begins to lower behind you, the beginning of a new evening. "We're going to give your daddy a goodbye, and then, Therese…"

She looks at you, her face expectant, the ray of hope somehow managing to peek through hundreds of layers of anguish and despondency. She expects what you're going to say, and you don't want to disappoint. You can't.

"We're going home."


End file.
